The sidewalk looks dry, cracked, unusable from here. The trace of dust, dried up mud in the lingering winter of April travels across it and dandelions grow haphazardly.
There is no landscape, imaginary or otherwise, worth traversing by foot in this land of cars.
A sign blinks:
We’re no longer in Kansas, Toto.
A sheet of black plastic rallies, mimicking the American flag next door. The gas station looks empty, uninhabitable and the trees whisper a bleak gray. There are no buds. Greenery is a figment of the imagination.
There is no neon on the sign. Just the faded white paint of the ice cream stand. It is only open in summer. The season for no doubts.